


Mirror Traffic

by byronically



Category: Beck (Musician), Pavement (Band), Stephen Malkmus (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Middle Aged Angst, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, RPF, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronically/pseuds/byronically
Summary: Steve didn’t really know what had made him think, Yeah, actually, I want an outside producer for this record. The Jicks were pleasantly surprised by the turn of events, that much was certain. They seemed rather excited when they found out that the producer was none other than Beck, too.He didn’t know why he wanted a producer, but he knew that he wanted Beck.-I started writing this when I was home sick one day. It's bad. It should not be shared. I'm embarrassed it even exists. Please enjoy.
Relationships: Beck Hansen/Stephen Malkmus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. I Want to Be There

It was gray and drizzling in Portland—go figure. Steve had politely declined to go out with the girls that day so he could work out a new tune that was needling at the back of his mind. He figured that if he could get this one in a good place, he would have enough material to get the Jicks together and feel their way through developing the other parts. A lot of the songs he had been writing were turning out folksier and less jam-bandy, but he liked the new direction after his last record.

_Their_ last record. SM and Jicks. Steve still caught himself thinking in terms of solo work. It was a flaw, he knew, to be so self-important, especially when he got to work with such a fantastic band. He really did love Janet, Joanna, and Mike. They were just as invested in the project as he was, and he tried to remember that when he could. But you can only be called the King of Indie Rock or whatever so many times before it starts to go to your head. Even now, in his forties, Stephen Malkmus was still the “coolest,” the “indiest.” Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if he picked up that ridiculous language from some magazine or if he invented it himself.

The cat rubbed up against his leg.

“Hey there, buddy,” Steve said, reaching down to pet the little guy. “You don’t think I’m an asshole, do you?”

Without so much as a _meow_ or a blink in response, the cat skittered off into the next room.

“Fuck you, too!” With a laugh, he began strumming his guitar. Maybe he needed to get the Jicks in on his songwriting seshes instead of only bringing them in after he’d already finished the tunes. Make it more collaborative. Could work.

_But not right now_ , he thought. Hitting record on his laptop, he began the song from the top, adding little flourishes as he went. _I’m hitting my stride. Anyone else would probably just take me off my game right now, so it’s really not worth—_

The phone was ringing. Not his cell phone, which is what Jessica or the kids would’ve called if there was an emergency, but the landline, which the Malkmus residence still had for some reason. Steve continued playing in silent irritation before pausing the recording and setting aside his guitar. The call went to voicemail as he walked through the house.

“Uh, hi, Steve? Steve Malkmus?”

He froze a few steps away from the phone. Even over the grainy phone speaker, the voice was unmistakable. He hadn’t heard that voice—the real thing, not a recording—in _years_. How many years? Nearly a decade?

“Um, this is Beck… Uh, Hansen. Just calling you up to say—oh, I got this number through Matador, by the way. And—uh, I’m just putting it out that I’m doing some producer work. I mean, if you need a producer—”

Steve picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh. Uh, hi. Steve?”

“Yeah. Hey, Beck.” Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “ _Beck Hansen_. No shit.”

Beck laughed uncertainly on the other end. “Stephen Malkmus. Hey.”

“What the hell is going on?” Steve picked up the phone and carefully brought it over to the kitchen table, making sure not to catch the line on any chairs as he sat down. Old technology—what a pain in the ass. “I haven’t heard from you since… what, ’99?”

“It couldn’t have been that long, could it?” Beck sounded so formal over the phone. Well, it was a business call, after all, wasn’t it? He was cold calling for producer work or something. It was just business…

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “But it feels like it’s been centuries. I forgot you existed.” That was unnecessary. He shouldn’t have said it.

Steve listened for a reaction, but Beck only paused for a brief moment. “Yeah, I’ve been busy, I guess. But that’s what I’m calling about. I’m between projects right now and I was thinking about getting more into the production side of things. So if you want an outside producer on your next record or anything, I just wanted to say I’m available.”

“Cool,” Steve said. “I usually produce my—I mean, the Jicks stuff—I produce that myself. We don’t really work with outside producers.”

He could practically _feel_ Beck retreating. “Right, right, I knew that, but I just thought I’d throw my hat in the ring if you were considering… I don’t even know if you’re working on anything right now, you know? I just thought—it’s nothing, though. Never mind. Sorry to bother you—”

“You’re not bothering me.” Steve silently cursed his whining, monotone voice. It really wasn’t his fault if he sounded bored or insincere. He couldn’t help it. “I probably sound pissed. I’m not. I’m really glad to hear from you, man.”

There was a short silence on the line. Maybe Beck was confused. “Oh, okay. It’s, uh, good to hear from you, too.”

Now they were both uncomfortable, but Steve thrived in such situations. “I was actually working on a song when you called. Wanna hear?”

“Uh, sure, yeah.”

Steve ran to grab his guitar, then settled back in at the table. “This is one from a big slew of stuff I’m working on.”

He carefully picked his way through the opening and into the verse, his head beginning to swim with ideas for lyrics. “ _I can’t contain the motion, get it out of my… mind._ ” He ad-libbed most of it, enjoying the rolling feel of the melody.

Steve didn’t want to make Beck suffer through more than one verse. He set the guitar aside and picked up the phone again. “Could you hear that?”

“Yeah, man! It sounded great.” Steve could _hear_ Beck’s smile. “It’s really different for you, I think. But it also reminds me of _Wowee_ a little, you know? It’s a little folksy, a little country even, but with a nice psychedelic touch to it.”

“Thanks, yeah, it definitely has the flavor of ’95, I think. I guess I’ve been feeling… reflective. Not nostalgic, though.”

“God forbid,” Beck said with a laugh. “But, uh, you know, if you do happen to want to bring some more of the ‘good old days’ into the record… I don’t know, I think I could help with that.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah, I’m sure you could.”

They both just sat there for a bit, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye. Steve probably could’ve sweat it out for hours, but Beck didn’t seem as keen on awkward silences.

“Well, I hope you’re doing well and all that,” he said. “I’ve got some other calls to make. But I hope I’ll hear from you again soon.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Steve said. “I’ll see you around.”

After he hung up, Steve realized he didn’t ask for a number. For all he knew, Beck called from some random office phone. He grimaced at the idea of having to ask his people to get in touch with Beck’s people, like they were corporate acquaintances or something. How impersonal and bureaucratic. They were a far cry from the Nineties after all…

* * *

Steve remembered the first time he met Beck. They were both young and skinny, but Beck looked like a child. He had all that hair back then, too. Pavement were playing a theatre in Philly; Beck was booked somewhere nearby and had swung by the show. “Loser” was on the radio and Pavement were the definitive slacker rock kings. They were incredibly different but remarkably similar at the same time. Of course, not everybody saw that.

Beck had just come to the show like anybody else. He wasn’t _magazine famous_ yet in the early Nineties—he had what would become the biggest novelty hit of the decade, but he was still a relative unknown at the time. Unfortunately, the people who recognized him were not usually fans.

Pavement were halfway through an extended version of “In the Mouth of a Desert” when Steve saw a fight break out in the crowd. He usually didn’t pay much attention to that kind of shit when he was playing, but for a moment he thought some asshole was roughing up a girl or a little kid. He wandered off-stage to tell someone to take care of it, and when he came back out, he saw one bouncer grab the arm of the aforementioned asshole, while another escorted the victim backstage. That was weird. He didn’t tell them to do that. Steve shook it from his mind and continued on with the set. After the show, he went looking for answers. His guitar tech filled him in.

“Dude, that was _Beck_. You know, the ‘Loser’ kid?”

Steve feigned ignorance. “Who?”

“He’s got that wacky rap song or whatever. It’s on the radio all the time. Anyway, they brought him backstage. He’s still around here somewhere, I think.”

Sure enough, Beck was flitting around talking to various roadies and venue workers. He seemed to be avoiding the band. Steve decided that the kid needed to pay his respects.

He played it straight. “Hey, ‘Loser,’ right?”

The kid turned around and looked at him, his mouth slack. God, he had the biggest blue eyes, didn’t he? He was pretty girlish all around, actually, with that long blonde hair and a slight build. His cheeks were flushed, and he had pouty, pink lips. Okay. He was cute, despite being pretty grungy and unkempt.

“I usually go by Beck,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for letting me backstage. There were some real assholes in the crowd.”

“Best fans in the world,” Steve said with a laugh. “What happened?”

Beck shrugged. “Same thing that always happens. Some guy recognized me, called me a poseur or a sellout or whatever, pushed me to ground and tried to beat the shit out of me.”

“That happen a lot?”  
  


“To varying degrees of physical violence.”

Steve decided that he liked this kid. “Wanna drink? Wait—are you legal?”

“Fuck off,” Beck said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t look that young.”

He definitely _did_ look that young, but Steve didn’t tease him over that. They went back to the green room and grabbed a few beers, but then they quickly exited out the back of the venue. Steve didn’t feel like hanging around the band and roadies that night, so he dragged Beck down the street to a nearby park. Steve popped the cap off one bottle and handed it to Beck.

“Thanks. Stephen, right?” Beck took a long drink and Steve tried not to stare.

“You can call me Steve,” he replied.

“Okay. You can call me Beck.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Steve opened his own beer. “I actually like ‘Loser,’ just so you know.” He felt like Beck was watching him, although it was hard to tell in the relative darkness.

“Thanks,” Beck said. “I really dig Pavement. I actually ruined my _Slanted_ cassette from playing it so much. Your new stuff’s amazing too. It was crazy hearing that live.”

Steve let himself smile at that. “Thanks. I’ll get you a replacement tape. I’ve got them coming out my fucking ears.”

They sat in a swing set and discussed music, the scene, the industry. They talked about their favorite bands and movies and what they had read recently, and they compared songwriting and recording techniques. Steve was pleased to hear that they had similar approaches to lyrics. Beck was enthusiastic about the different sonic direction Pavement were taking with their sophomore album. They both wished they had brought along guitars. Eventually, Steve fished a joint and lighter out of his front shirt pocket.

“Wanna hit?” He lit it up and took a long draw before holding it out to his companion.

Surprisingly, Beck hesitated. “I, uh, don’t really smoke.”

“It’s weed.”

“Yeah, I know.” Beck stood up from the swing and walked over to the jungle gym, climbing it with all the grace of a fucking _chimpanzee_. “I try to avoid drugs. I’ve got horror stories.”

Steve stood up and followed him over, but he only hooked his arms around the bars. “It’s _just_ weed,” he clarified.

Beck looked wary, but then seemingly gave into the peer pressure. He reached out gingerly to take the joint and then brought it to his lips, inhaling slowly and looking Steve directly in the eyes. _God_. Just when it started to be a bit much, Beck broke into a coughing fit.

“Easy there,” Steve said with a laugh, taking the joint back and flicking the ash from its tip. “You really don’t smoke, huh?”

“No shit,” Beck said, rubbing his eyes. “But if anyone was gonna get me to do it, it would be Stephen fucking Malkmus.”

“Don’t feel bad. No one can say no to me.”

They passed the joint back and forth until it was just a roach. Steve dropped it to the ground and put it out underfoot, then he finally climbed up to where Beck was sitting. From up close, Steve could see just how small the other boy really was under all his baggy layers of clothes. He obviously didn’t have much of a tolerance, and it seemed that even the shitty weed Steve had was enough to knock him on his ass. Beck probably didn’t even know where he was or what he was doing, he was so out of it. Their conversation took strange turns and tangents, and Beck began talking excitedly about his avant-garde artist grandfather, his love of folk and country music, and the Latin neighborhood in LA where he grew up. Steve tried to keep up, unhelpfully talking about UVA when Beck mentioned dropping out of high school or complaining about his father’s conservative political views when Beck opened up about his tumultuous family history. But Beck was too high to register that Steve kept derailing the conversation. He just chugged onwards.

At one point, Beck nearly fell off the jungle gym. Steve caught him and _held him_ there for a moment while they both regained their balance. Beck’s face was really flushed now, and Steve wished he knew what the kid was thinking when he looked up at him with those wide, blue eyes. The weed had made him a little horny. _We should fuck on this jungle gym_ , Steve wanted to say. But, no—there was no fucking way Beck had ever done anything like that, and Steve didn’t want to scare him away. He had to start small and work his way there.

“You’re pretty fucked up,” Steve said, letting go of Beck’s shoulders but then moving one hand up to hold the back of his head. “Where do you need to go? I’ll walk you.”

Beck looked at him with pink, watery eyes. “Uh… I’ve got a friend here. Staying with him.”

“You know the address?” Steve didn’t want to seem impatient, but the metal bars were starting to hurt his ass and he wanted to get moving.

“Uh…” Beck furrowed his brow and looked at his shoes. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

Steve climbed down and helped Beck do the same. They walked a couple of blocks until they found a phone booth where they could call an all-night taxi. Beck seemed pleased when Steve climbed into the car after him, and he didn’t scoot all the way over so that they sat quite near each other the entire ride. When they got to the address, they both got out, but Steve asked the driver to wait so that he could get a ride back to the motel where Pavement were crashing.

They walked up a short flight of concrete stairs to the front door, Steve waiting on the second-to-last step when Beck turned around at the top. They were nearly eye-level with each other now, and Steve awkwardly shoved his hands in his jeans pockets as Beck stared him down with the same wet-eyed, slack-jawed look from before. Before he could think about what he _should_ do, Steve acted on what he _could_ do—he reached out to grab Beck’s face and bring him in for a hard kiss.

Beck clearly didn’t know how to react at first, but then he began kissing back slowly. Steve could’ve cried with relief, but he knew that Beck was still stoned and might react badly once he sobered up. He cut the kiss short, pulling away and looking Beck in the eyes for a moment before backing away and trotting down the steps. At the bottom, he turned around and gave a little wave, a little wry smile.

“See you on the campaign trail.”

“Bye,” Beck said, waving back robotically. Poor kid.

Steve walked back to the cab and heard Beck bang on the front door, somebody else come to the door and swear at him for waking him up in the middle of the goddamn night. He hoped the kid wouldn’t be in too much trouble. He didn’t want the memory of their night to be marred by some dumbfuck tour manager.

When he got back into the cab, the driver muttered something about “fucking faggots” under his breath, but he still drove him to the correct address. Steve tipped generously—he was celebrating his small victories. He hoped he would see Beck again soon.


	2. I Know You Like It When I Come on Too Slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little flashback from Beck's POV. Here's where the smut comes in.

Lollapalooza 1995. Beck was beyond pleased to share the bill with so many bands that he admired, including ones that he genuinely considered friends, like Sonic Youth. But he was also disgusted with the commerciality and performativity of it all. The drama surrounding Courtney Love and Hole was the worst of it, of course, but it pervaded the entire tour in subtle ways, too. Thurston was getting weird with the online diaries, for instance, so Beck tried to do the opposite of that—he was _weird_ with them, obviously, but he didn’t play it straight like some of the other performers. He used it as a kind of abstracting, stream-of-consciousness, prose-poetry kind of reflection on music and America. It was part of his established ethos, sure, but it certainly wasn’t what _Spin_ had in mind when they commissioned the tour diary project.

He didn’t give the crowds what they wanted either. What they wanted was “Loser” back-to-back-to-back _ad nauseum_ and little outside of that. Instead, he showcased the new songs that he was planning to release on his upcoming album. He loved the songs. He thought they were _fun_. That sentiment wasn’t common, apparently. After the first few shows, it became clear that few people were _excited_ for the new material. They treated it like an oddity. It was exhausting. It was the backlash from “Loser” all over again, except this time in reverse. Would it ever end?

Early in the tour, Beck tried to find solace in his friendships with the other musicians but found little comfort there. Thurston and Kim seemed to always be bitching about Courtney, and Beck didn’t have the energy for that. One afternoon, after his acoustic set, he decided to hang out with someone else for a change. He wandered around for a bit, hoping to stumble upon Yo La Tengo or someone else relatively chill. Instead, as he turned a corner in the trailer area, he nearly collided with _Stephen fucking Malkmus_.

“Ah, sorry,” Beck said, trying to slip away once he noticed Steve was alone.

“Hey!” Steve foiled his escape, grabbing the smaller man by his shoulders and grinning. “Beck! What’s up?”

“Uh, just looking for Ira—”

“Yo La Tengo’s getting ready to play right now,” Steve said quickly. Beck was almost certain that wasn’t true, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m going to my trailer, wanna hang out for a bit?”

Beck was always a little nervous around Steve. Every time they crossed paths on tour, Beck secretly feared that Pavement were laughing behind his back. Steve wasn’t as forthcoming as someone like Thurston, and it was nearly impossible to tell what he was thinking. When he _did_ speak his thoughts, it was just as difficult to parse if he was being _sincere_ or not. It didn’t help that the one time they did have an extended, honest conversation culminated in Steve _kissing_ Beck. What the fuck was that about? Was it a joke? It just didn’t feel like a _Pavement_ kind of thing. They had both been high, and Beck didn’t really remember everything that happened, so he was never able to determine _why_ Steve had done that or _how_ he should feel about it. Since then, he just felt nervous around the other musician.

“Um, I don’t know,” Beck said.

Steve let go of his shoulders. “Oh, okay. Sorry, man.”

Beck instantly regretted his aloofness. Steve looked downright _crestfallen_. “I mean, I can hang out for a bit. But not too long.”

“Great,” Steve said, his smile returning. “It’s this way.”

Once in the trailer, Steve set out a few beers for them by the couch and began strumming a Big Star song. Beck noticed the weed and pipe on the side table but didn’t say anything about them. It was pretty common knowledge that Pavement were spending a lot of time getting high on tour. And after listening to _Wowee Zowee_ , how could you doubt that Stephen Malkmus was anything but a stoner? Especially with those single choices—great songs, for sure, but commercially impotent. Beck, for his part, avoided all kinds of drugs like the plague, and weed was no exception. He saw it as incompatible with his personality and work ethic. He was constantly amazed that musicians were able to get anything—let alone _good_ music—written under the influence.

“Weird tour so far,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Beck agreed. “You don’t seem to be having much fun.”

“I’m having the time of my life.” Once again, Beck had no idea if Steve was being sarcastic or not.

He drank his beer slowly, then set it aside and shook his head when Steve moved to get him another. “They were doing video interviews the other day. They couldn’t find you. They had to interview Pavement without you.”

Steve seemed amused by that thought: _Pavement without you_. “I wouldn’t have said anything worth taping anyway.”

Beck endured the discomfort a little longer but felt like he should say something when Steve started playing “Pay No Mind.” “Uh… haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, we did a European tour. Sort of off the beaten path for a bit, I guess. I liked Europe, though.” Steve began improvising, his skills still impressing Beck after all this time.

“Europe’s nice,” Beck said.

Steve suddenly stopped playing. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

Beck froze and looked him in the eye. Was he joking? They barely knew each other—how would he know if he was acting _weird_ or not? He tried to lean away, but he was already backed up against the arm of the couch.

“This bullshit small talk stuff isn’t really your style,” Steve said. “It’s definitely not mine.”

“Uh, I just… I don’t know what to say.” Beck scratched the side of his face and looked away. He was acutely aware that Steve was still staring at him.

“You’re like this every time I try to talk to you,” Steve said. “Or you try to avoid me. Do you hate me or something?”

Beck looked back up at him in shock. “What? No—no, I don’t hate you. I just didn’t know… _Jesus_ , don’t you remember that first time we met?”

Steve’s face was blank for a moment before understanding passed over it. “Oh, you mean when we kissed. Fuck, sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you were cute, you know? I won’t do it again.”

Before Steve even finished, Beck could feel his face heating up. Fuck, he was blushing. He was blushing _hard_. Did he hear that right? Steve genuinely thought he was _cute_ and _that_ was why he kissed him? It wasn’t some fucked-up power-trip kind of mind game? It was sincere, not a joke? What the fuck?

Beck swallowed with difficulty and looked away again. “Um, okay—uh, I’m not gay.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Steve laughed, setting aside the guitar. “Neither am I.”

That didn’t quite add up in Beck’s mind, but he tried not to think about it too much. Although he did wonder how often Steve did kiss other men… He couldn’t imagine any of the other guys in Pavement thinking that kind of behavior was normal. Was it a secret? Beck certainly hadn’t told anyone about their kiss. Who the fuck would believe him?

“Then why did you kiss me?” Beck decided that he wanted answers.

Steve looked at him with a quizzical smile. “Because I wanted to. You’ve got a kissable mouth. It didn’t matter what you had in your pants.”

Beck was back to blushing furiously. Was Steve always like this? What happened to the indifferent indie rocker who dodged and redirected questions like his life depended upon it? Where was the obfuscation and sarcasm? The directness was beginning to unsettle Beck. The trailer suddenly felt very small and very hot.

“Um, I think I should go.” Beck stood up to leave, but Steve grabbed his shirt sleeve.

“Wait—” Steve began to say something but then snapped his mouth shut. For the first time, it seemed, the lyricist was at a loss for words. “Um… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m really sorry. If I could take it back, I would.”

Now this was sincerity. It almost pained Beck to see the so-called king of irony being so sincere. It was uncharted territory. Beck worried at his lower lip, trying to decide what to do or say.

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, neither one wanting to make the situation worse. Eventually, Beck sat back down stiffly.

“Uh, it’s okay,” he said, hyperaware of the way his knee brushed against Steve’s thigh. “I wouldn’t want you to take it back. I was just… confused. And stuff.”

Steve searched Beck’s face. “Wait, you wouldn’t want me to take back what I said or… the kiss?”

Beck tried desperately not to blush again, although he knew he couldn’t really help it. “Uh, the kiss. It was, um… nice, actually.”

That did it. The way Steve’s face lit up nearly killed Beck. It was just too much. Why the fuck did he care so much?

“Really?” Steve leaned in a little, and Beck thought that he saw those hazel eyes sparkle.

Beck’s breath caught in his throat. They were too close, but he felt stuck in place. He was paralyzed. He felt oddly warm. Electric. “Uh, yeah. I mean, you’re a good kisser or whatever.”

Steve was slowly—ever so slowly, nearly imperceptibly—getting closer and closer. He looked down at Beck’s mouth and back up into his eyes. Beck had a feeling that he knew what was coming. _Come on, just do it already!_ He wanted to scream. If Steve was going to do something, why did he have to do it so frustratingly slowly?

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I said I wouldn’t kiss you again.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Beck said, then closed the distance and smashed his mouth against Steve’s. _Just to get it over with_ , he told himself. _It was going to happen anyway._

Steve wasted no time wrapping his arms around Beck’s smaller frame and pulling him closer. This wasn’t like the last time. Steve hadn’t _touched him_ like this last time. That kiss had been _polite_. This one was _ravenous_ and sloppy. Beck jumped when he felt Steve’s hand under his shirt. His own hands were in Steve’s hair and at the back of his neck. Steve kept pulling him closer, and Beck was practically _in his lap_ before he realized what was happening.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve muttered before biting at Beck’s throat. “You’re so _hot_.”

Beck _was_ feeling hot. In fact, he was burning up. He pulled away long enough to pull off his outer flannel shirt, and then Steve went ahead and tugged Beck’s t-shirt up over his head, too. He stripped his own shirt off as well before pulling Beck back into the kiss. The feeling of bare skin against his chest was a relief, and Beck leaned into Steve as he deepened the kiss. He didn’t notice at first when Steve snaked his hand between them and under Beck’s waistband.

“ _Oh, god_.” Beck was breathless and well on his way to being completely wrecked at this point. He pressed his hips _hard_ against Steve, no longer caring whether this was _gay_ or how often Steve did this or what anyone would think. Steve shakily undid Beck’s fly and began lowering him onto his back. They were now completely horizontal, Steve hovering above him and their legs all tangled up. They kept kissing and biting at one another’s necks as Steve started stroking Beck’s now very erect cock. Beck had never received a handjob from another guy before, but at this point he wasn’t thinking in those terms anymore. What he thought was, _I need more_.

He didn’t realize that he was moaning and whimpering and asking for _more_ until Steve started whispering back to him.

“You gotta let me up. Let me up, baby, and I’ll give you more.”

Beck reluctantly released his arms from around Steve’s shoulders and chased his mouth with kisses as he pulled away. He thought Steve was getting up, but instead he sank lower, toward his hips. Steve hooked his fingers under Beck’s waistband and looked up at him as he yanked the jeans down to his knees. Beck’s dick sprang free, pink and leaking precum, but before he could be embarrassed, Steve grabbed the base and licked the head.

“ _Oh, fu—_ Jesus! Christ, _fuck_ …” Beck panted heavily and laid his head back against the armrest, flinging an arm over his eyes, reaching down and grabbing Steve’s hair with his other hand. He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting weakly as Steve took more of him into his mouth. “Oh my god, fuck… St-Steve…”

Steve hummed as he sucked and stroked, driving Beck wild. He kept asking, no, _begging_ for more, breathless with arousal and totally uninhibited. He was distantly aware that he was being noisy, moaning and writhing like a wanton slut, but in the moment, he didn’t care. He was so close, and he just needed _more, please, keep going—_

Beck came with a groan, shuddering as Steve shoved off him and grabbed the nearby trash can to spit. He breathed hard and curled up on his side, feeling his wet dick against his thigh, his belly. Everything felt incredibly sensitive and strange. He hadn’t expected…

“Come here,” Steve said, hauling Beck up so that they were both back to sitting upright. He then began planting wet kisses everywhere—on Beck’s mouth, jaw, neck, shoulders… Steve rubbed gentle circles into the small of his back, too. “Was that good?”

“Yeah,” Beck said, feeling awkwardness creeping back in as his orgasm faded. What the fuck just happened?

Steve leaned away momentarily to retrieve the pipe Beck had seen earlier. “Listen, I know you don’t smoke much, but _trust me_ —this blows ‘cigarettes after sex’ out of the water.”

Beck watched as Steve lit the pipe and inhaled deeply, clearing it completely and holding his breath for a moment before whistling out a steady stream of smoke. When he offered it to Beck, he took a hit, then another, because _he needed it for his nerves after what just happened_.

While Steve was taking his second hit, Beck noticed that he was still hard in his pants. “You didn’t, um…” He gestured toward his crotch helpfully.

“S’okay,” Steve said, exhaling another large cloud. “Don’t have to do everything at once.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.” Beck took the pipe when Steve passed it to him but then set it on the side table. “I wouldn’t mind—”

“It’s fine, really.” Steve smiled at him. “You can get me next time.”

_Next time?_ Beck hadn’t thought that far into the future. Suddenly, he felt anxious again and became acutely aware of just how _exposed_ he was compared to Steve. He hurriedly pulled his pants back up and then looked around for his shirts. But before he could get up to retrieve the rest of his clothes, Steve pulled him back in for another kiss. This one was slow and gentle. A parting shot.

“You trying to leave?” Steve asked when he pulled away. “You’re stoned, kid.”

Beck shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I’m playing tonight.”

“Yeah, me too, but you don’t see me rushing to stumble around the festival grounds.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Beck looked Steve over, thankful to see that the other musician looked just as wrecked as he felt.

“Sleep it off,” Steve said with a smile. “This couch is pretty comfortable.”

Beck considered refusing, but he _was_ tired, so he silently assented and laid back down. He thought Steve would lie down with him, but he grabbed his shirt and guitar and headed for the door instead.

“Everybody expects this kind of behavior from me,” Steve said. “I’m just a stoner piece of shit. I’ll see you at the show.”

He left and locked the door behind him, not waiting for Beck’s response. For his part, Beck was speechless. But he couldn’t help but be grateful toward Steve. Maybe this tour would be better than he thought. As he drifted off into sleep, his mind kept wandering to the way Steve looked at him just before they kissed…

* * *

Beck wasn’t gay. He had a girlfriend, whom he loved, and he had never even _thought_ about guys _like that_. Well, not seriously. Not before he met Stephen Malkmus.

Steve wasn’t gay either. Beck knew that. Where he came from, _gay_ was a label for effeminate men, weirdos, and freaks. Not effortlessly cool indie frontmen. It was a word that got you beat up—for being it or for using it on the wrong person. Beck really didn’t have a problem with gay men, but he certainly wasn’t one.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from sneaking off to make out with Steve whenever he got the chance for the rest of Lollapalooza. It was just a matter of convenience. Leigh couldn’t come on tour with him, and surely this was better than getting with some random groupies. And it wasn’t really cheating because it was with a _guy_. It didn’t mean anything, even if it slowly got more and more intense as the summer went on. Steve became more physical, pushing Beck up against walls and practically tearing off his clothes. As Beck grew more comfortable with their _arrangement_ , he took a more active role in their trysts, starting with tentative handjobs and eventually working up the courage to suck Steve’s dick.

“You don’t have to,” Steve had said the first time Beck dropped to his knees.

“I want to,” Beck had replied, looking up at Steve’s wondering eyes as he undid his fly.

It had been immensely satisfying to finally be the one _causing_ all the moans and whimpers. The noises Steve made were, surprisingly, a major turn on for Beck, and, after that first time, he couldn’t help palming himself whenever he sucked him off. The blowjob itself wasn’t awful either, and Beck soon realized that just the _thought_ of getting on his knees for Steve was enough to get him hard. It was a strange revelation, and Beck began to worry that he was becoming a little _too_ invested in his relationship with Steve.

On the last day of the tour, they spent their precious little time together swapping blowjobs in Beck’s trailer. Then they spooned on the couch, enjoying the respite before they had to go out and perform on the festival stage for the last time. Beck listened to Steve breathing deeply, his soft cock pressed up against his ass. This was definitely not what Beck had imagined when he was first asked to do the tour. It wasn’t what he pictured when he went to that first Pavement show and was invited backstage. He never would have expected any of this before, let alone _wanted it_. But now he was nervously uncertain about what the future would bring once the tour was over. Would Steve still want to see him? Would he want to see Steve?

“Um, have you thought about what’s going to happen when the tour ends?”

Steve exhaled sharply against Beck’s neck. “I haven’t even thought about tonight’s setlist.”

It wasn’t a very reassuring answer. Beck hummed in reply and absentmindedly rubbed circles on Steve’s arm. “I mean, we’re obviously not going to see each other every day like this.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve said, though he was oddly quiet.

“I just… I don’t know. I don’t know what to expect.” Beck hoped he didn’t sound like some girl. He wasn’t _asking_ for anything. He just wanted to know how Steve felt about the situation.

Steve shifted and moved his arm from Beck’s waist to his chest. “I guess I’ll just see you around sometimes. Like how it was before.”

That was what Beck wanted. He wanted everything to just go back to how it was before, minus the awkwardness between them. Beck wanted to go back to making music and sleeping with his girlfriend and hanging out with friends. That’s what he told himself. So why did his heart sink when Steve said it out loud?

“Good,” Beck said. “How it was before.”

That night when he saw Pavement perform on the main stage, Beck couldn’t help but feel like something important was ending. No more wet, needy kisses. No more sneaking around backstage. No more hiding out in trailers and hoping no one came knocking. No more laughing hazel eyes.

Steve looked over to where Beck was standing offstage and grinned as he sang. “ _I keep my address to yourself, ‘cause we need secrets / We need secret-cret-cret-cret-crets back right now…_ ”

It didn’t mean anything. So why did it still hurt?


	3. Soft Grass Grown Between Us

Steve didn’t really know what had made him think, _Yeah, actually, I want an outside producer for this record_. The Jicks were pleasantly surprised by the turn of events, that much was certain. They seemed rather excited when they found out that the producer was none other than _Beck_ , too.

He didn’t know why he wanted a producer, but he knew that he wanted Beck.

They scheduled a four-day recording session at Sunset Sound in L.A. Steve wasn’t keen on being back in California—he didn’t like being _tan_ —so he made sure to give himself a tight deadline. All the songs were already written, anyway. The lyrics needed tweaking, but they were ready to record, for the most part. It would be over and done with before they knew it.

When they arrived at the studio, Steve felt himself getting nervous, though he would never show it. Most people didn’t realize it, but he was a pretty anxious guy. Interviewers usually read his energy as standoffish, but the real reason he was quiet—especially back in the day—was because he was uncomfortable and _maybe just a tiny bit shy_. He was hardly rock star material. In fact, he was almost certain that Pavement didn’t get more popular simply because he was just bad at being famous. Or maybe that was just more self-centered thinking. He’d have to watch that.

Beck greeted them warmly but kept his distance as he showed them around the studio. He helped them set up, then took the producer’s chair as they tuned. Steve couldn’t help taking long looks at his old friend. He’d aged, sure, but he’d aged well, for the most part. Still had the same doe-eyes. His hair was shaggy and curly, sort of like how he had it in ’99, thinning a little but still blond. He looked like he hadn’t put on a pound since the last time Steve saw him. He looked good.

“You guys about ready?” Beck asked over the intercom.

Steve checked with Joanna, Janet, and Mike before giving Beck the thumbs up. “Let’s do ‘Brain Gallop’ first.”

The Jicks sounded great—they always did. There was hardly any need for overdubs on the backing track because they were such goddamn professionals about everything. Whenever Beck interrupted them and had them reset, it wasn’t their fault—it was Steve’s. He didn’t know why he couldn’t get into the groove. With a band like his, it _should_ be easy. He already had the songs written, so he should’ve been gliding through them like it was nothing. Instead, he found himself second-guessing every chord, every lyric. His voice sounded limp and empty. His riffs felt dull.

“Okay, why don’t we take a quick break to regroup, and then hit it again in ten?” Beck said after yet another ruined take. The Jicks sighed with relief and practically threw their instruments down. Steve reached for his water bottle, but his eyes were on Beck. The younger man was avoiding his gaze. He seemed cold for some reason. Why wouldn’t he talk to Steve?

Setting the water down, Steve decided to confront the awkwardness head-on. He headed out of the recording booth, aiming to chat with Beck, but his target had already exited the studio. Undeterred, Steve followed him out into the hall.

“Hey, where ya goin’, buddy?” Steve called after him.

Beck stopped and turned around, frowning. “Bathroom.”

“Ah,” Steve said, also stopping. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Planning on avoiding me in there?”

“Kinda just need to take a leak,” Beck said with a laugh. “I’m not _avoiding_ you.”

Steve looked down at his shoes. “It feels like you are.”

“I’m the one who invited you down here!” Beck protested.

“It’s a _job_ ,” Steve said. “And it’s the first I’ve heard from you in _years_.”

Beck didn’t reply for a moment. He was stonewalling Steve. “I just want to help you make your record. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Steve let him go. It was strange—he hadn’t felt this alienated from the other man, this _far away_ from him when he was standing _right there_ , since… well, since Beck had deliberately given him the slip back in ’94. Yeah, it was the KROQ Weenie Roast. Steve remembered it clearly. Beck had just hit it big with _Mellow Gold_ and “Loser” was in the Top Ten. Pavement had it pretty good at the time too—they were riding the (admittedly very modest) success of _Crooked Rain_ and felt like minor rock and roll gods. What a time…

“Great set!” The festival manager had praised them as he ushered them off to the side of the main stage. “Loved your energy!”

That’s how Steve knew he hadn’t been watching. They had done little more than show up—Steve had characteristically stared at his shoes or the stage lights or his guitar the entire set, and Scott sneered at the audience the entire time. Mark was happy to be there and acted like it—except he made it seem like he was a lucky nobody who got to jam with his favorite band, not an actual touring musician. Westie’s presence was only apparent because you could hear the drums. Even Bob, the eternal crowd-pleaser, didn’t bring much of a performance. They were all just tired that day. Not even a festival full of alternateens could excite them. It was all dreary and—

_Beck?_ Steve stopped and stared at the skinny kid with shaggy blond hair. He was wearing sunglasses and a ridiculous hat, but— _yes_ , it was _him_. Of course, Beck played that festival too. Steve just never looked at the lineup. Hell, he hardly looked at his own setlist. So of course he was floored when he saw Beck standing not ten feet away.

“Hey!” He called out, accidentally summoning the attention of about twelve different stagehands. “Uh… not you, sorry. Beck!”

The kid looked in his direction and froze, his mouth slightly open. Steve took the opportunity to move toward him.

“Hey, are you up next?”

Beck snapped his mouth shut and took a step back. “I played earlier.”

“Oh, shit,” Steve frowned. “Sorry I missed you. But, hey, your record’s great!”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite song?”

Steve panicked. Why could he only think of “Loser”? Mentioning that track would probably just piss the other musician off. What was that other song… “Uh, I really like… track two. You know, uh… sorry, I’m bad with titles.”

“‘Pay No Mind’,” Beck supplied.

“Yeah! _Pay no mind, sleep in slime, all the time_ —”

“ _Just got signed_ ,” Beck corrected, sounding a little irritated. “I’ve got to go—”

“Wait!” Steve sidestepped, blocking Beck’s way. “What are you up to later? Wanna hang with the guys, maybe jam or something?”

Even behind his sunglasses, Steve could tell that Beck’s eyes were flitting between him and his escape. “Uh, no, sorry, I’m kind of busy.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve said, a little deflated. “Maybe next time.”

“Yeah, next time,” Beck said, moving around the other man. “See you later.”

Steve watched him walk away, confused and more than a little disappointed. What had happened? Where was the talkative kid he met in Philly?

As he walked away, Scott came up to him. “Struck out, eh?”

“Fuck off, Scott,” Steve spat, heading off toward their trailer.

“Jeez, take a joke!” Scott called after him, clearly confused. Steve instantly regretted snapping at him. That’s where his bad reputation came from—he was easily upset, and he had a habit of taking it out on others. He knew it was a problem. He just didn’t really feel like dealing with it right now. Why would he when he could just chill out in his trailer and smoke a little to calm down?

* * *

What he wouldn’t do for a joint right now, Steve thought as he tuned his guitar in the lounge area of the studio. He could use something to calm his nerves. Of course, he rarely ever smoked these days. He was a _dad_ , after all. He had to be responsible, a good role model, whatever. It was a drag sometimes.

Beck came back into the studio and passed by Steve without so much as a glance. He took the producer’s chair again and began fiddling with the computer. Steve watched out of the corner of his eye, careful not to look too much like a lost puppy. He didn’t want the Jicks or the engineers to get the wrong idea. Or the right idea.

Steve managed to pull it together a little and record a few good takes. The rest of the day flew by, and before he knew it, it was time to stop for the night. Beck graciously invited the band out for dinner, but Steve knew that it was just a perfunctory gesture. He knew Beck wanted to stay as far away from him as possible, which made him incredibly sad, despite his well-guarded emotions and defense mechanisms. How could he _not_ feel tenderness toward Beck after all the time they had spent together? They were more than just old friends… Surely Beck knew that. So why was he acting so distant?

In ’94, Steve knew that Beck had just been afraid—afraid that Steve was making a joke out of him or something. They had cleared that up at Lollapalooza, thank god—what a time that had been, all full of nervous firsts and stolen moments. Against his better judgement, Steve felt intensely nostalgic for that summer. It had been perfect—before it had gotten too intense for him to bear.

Maybe that’s what was keeping Beck away. Maybe he was afraid it would get to be too much again. Steve considered the thought over dinner, barely talking. He wondered if Beck still felt the same way but was too guarded to let it show. It was an intoxicating thought—but perhaps too hopeful. After all, they could be friends without—

“Steve?” Janet interrupted his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah?” Steve looked up and realized that he had just missed a question.

Joanna laughed. “Someone’s a little in his head. We were asking about how far you guys go back.”

Steve looked over at Beck, who was clearly doing his best to appear open and amiable. “Pretty far. Like 1993, I think.”

“Yeah,” Beck said. “We met in Philly.”

Mike said something about the scene in the early Nineties and Beck gladly carried the conversation. Steve watched him, wondering if his thoughts were also sent reeling back to that day at the mere mention of it. He wondered if he had buried the memory, if he refused to let it resurface.

Steve tore his eyes away from his old friend and pushed potatoes around on his plate. Suddenly, he wasn’t so hungry.

After dinner, the Jicks headed to the hotel, but Steve said he was going to take a walk. Mike gave him a funny look but didn’t protest. Beck waved as they loaded into a taxi and drove off, then turned to frown at Steve.

“So,” he said.

Steve forced a smile. “So.”

Sighing, Beck walked over to lean against the wall next to him. “I didn’t think this was going to be so difficult.”

“Yeah, I’m struggling with the songs a lot more than I should. I mean, I thought they sounded fine back in Portland, but now—”

“I’m not talking about the record,” Beck interrupted.

Steve looked over at him and was shocked to see his friend teary-eyed. “Are you okay?”

Beck shook his head slightly. “We aren’t the same people anymore. We’re not like we used to be.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, though he knew exactly what he meant.

“I remember how easy it was to talk to you,” Beck said, “to just be with you. It was like… breathing. It felt so natural. Now…”

“It’s more like suffocating,” Steve supplied.

Beck laughed. “Yeah. Suffocating.”

Steve looked at the other man sadly. “What happened?”

After a long pause, Beck glanced up at Steve. “You know what? Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

A little surprised at the sudden turn in conversation, Steve hesitated for a minute when Beck pushed away from the wall and headed toward the parking lot. Steve hurried after him, grateful to see the ice finally melting in Beck’s eye.

The bar Beck chose was _tasteful_. That was the word Steve chose for it. Not one of the dorky hipster dive bars he frequented back in Portland. No, this place was nicely decorated, appropriately lit, modestly busy, and certainly out of his price range. This wasn’t a bar for people signed to Matador, that was for sure. But he was being escorted by a big label star—who he assumed would foot the bill, but he ordered a cheap drink anyway.

It was fine. Nothing special. Alcohol. Something to hide behind while Beck stared him down.

They were both still skittish around each other. Some old wounds stay sensitive even after years. The question was, what caused the scar?

“So,” Beck started.

“So…” Steve replied.

Beck looked as uncomfortable as Steve felt. “I have to say, I was angry with you for a long time.”

Steve nodded. “For not calling?”

“For not—” Beck laughed and looked away, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, not for _not calling_. I was angry at you for fucking disappearing from my life when I _needed_ you. This wasn’t a few months of radio silence, Steve. You fucking ignored me for years. I _reached out_ to you, and you… God, even after that fucking album, not a word from you. Not a single. Goddamn. Word.”

Confused, Steve searched Beck’s face for answers. Sure, he didn’t reach out, but neither did Beck! What did he mean by— _Oh._ Steve suddenly remembered.

“Beck, I—” _I’m sorry? I apologize for ghosting you when you clearly needed a friend? I regret burning that letter? I’ve not been able to set foot in California without feeling guilty for a decade?_ Nothing Steve could say would fix what he had done… or hadn’t.

Tearing up, Beck exhaled heavily. “I didn’t think I could forgive you for a long time. But… well, I’m getting a little too old to hold grudges.”

Steve gulped. “So just like that? You forgave me out of nowhere?”

“No,” Beck said. “But I did decide to give you a second chance. I’ve… My wife and I are going through something. We’ll sort it out like we always do. But I thought… I’d give you a chance to make up for what you didn’t do before.”

The realization of what Beck wanted settled on Steve’s shoulders like a ton of bricks. “I’m here for you, Beck. Whatever you need. And… I’m sorry I wasn’t here the first time.”

Beck smiled weakly. “I know. I missed you.”

They waited until they got to Beck’s house to get at each other. Steve was nervous, looking around as if he half-expected to get caught.

“The kids are with their mom,” Beck said, kissing him softly. “It’s just us.”

Steve relaxed at that, but he still closed the bedroom door behind them as he followed Beck to bed. They stripped off each other’s shirts and laid down, making out for what felt like an eternity. When Beck’s hands wandered lower, Steve pulled away. “We don’t have to—”

“Do everything at once?” Beck supplied.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a smile.

Beck sighed and drew closer, prompting Steve to embrace him tightly. They didn’t have sex that night—they just slept together, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies, the comfort of having someone they loved nearby. When the sun came up the next morning, Steve didn’t want to get out of bed. _Screw the record_ , he thought. _I have everything I need right here_.

“Good morning,” he said when Beck began to stir.

“Damn, what time is it?” Beck asked. “We’re going to be late.”

“Then let’s be late.” Steve kissed him and leaned his weight against his slight frame, pinning him down to the bed.

Beck wriggled out from under him. “We don’t have time for this. Your band is going to be waiting.”

Steve just laughed. “I’ll make it up to them.”

“Oh, sure,” Beck got out of bed and went over to his closet to change. “Stephen Malkmus, king of sweet talk, will make everything okay.”

“Hey, I fixed things with you, like I always have!”

Turning around and gaping in disbelief, Beck scoffed. “You didn’t do shit. I confronted you and forced you to apologize. _Like I always have._ ”

Steve pouted comically. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, sure,” Beck said. “Whatever dream world you’re living in, it sounds nice. But I live in the real world. And in the real world, people use the studio time that they pay for.”

He tossed Steve a shirt. Catching it, Steve held it up. “Really, your own merch?” It was one of Beck’s old tour shirts, a design from the 90s with a little rainbow logo.

“Just put it on. I don’t have a lot of shirts that would fit you.” Beck said. “Let’s get moving, shall we?”

Steve rolled his eyes but pulled on the shirt. Part of him felt embarrassment in advance knowing that Mike, Joanna, and Janet would probably piece together what had happened last night. The other part of him felt oddly happy to be wearing Beck’s clothes. It was cheesy as hell, but he had always had a soft spot for the kid. Well, he wasn’t a _kid_ anymore. But that didn’t stop Steve from reminiscing about their younger days, against his better judgement. It was funny how much had changed, and how much _hadn’t_. In many ways, they were still the same foolish boys, making the same mistakes…


End file.
